Breakfast
by dragoon811
Summary: Hermione can't cook. A ficlet.


**Author's Note:** Hello, all! This came to me while I was trying to sleep. Thanks to Toblass for giving it a quick proofread, since I did write it on my phone. Enjoy :)

* * *

 **Breakfast**

Hermione Granger was a terrible cook. If it wasn't eggs and toast, spaghetti, or out of a tin, then burnt bits and a lack of flavour abounded. It wasn't like she hadn't tried, either. She had been pushed aside and "shown how to do it properly" by Molly Weasley more times than she could count, but the lessons either never stuck, or more likely if she were honest with herself, she didn't care.

And why should she? She had no intention of becoming a housewife and mother. She didn't particularly like children, so while if it happened she wasn't averse to it, nor was it something she wanted to set a goal towards. Hermione was much happier contemplating a future where she had a decent job with good pay that kept her occupied, and maybe a decent man if she found one who could keep up with her in and out of the bedroom.

Besides, takeaway was a perfectly respectable option, she told herself.

In the end, tinned meals and takeaway worked to her favour, as her favourite spots seemed to recommend a single gentleman who at least had decent taste in cuisine.

They spent a great deal of their wait for meals chatting after the first few evenings of him glaring at her in contempt and her openly staring and being rather curious. They got on rather well once he gave in and let her ask questions, and even better when he started answering.

The only downside was that he was Severus Snape and she was fairly certain he would never want to date a former student.

Luckily, she was wrong on that count, but to be perfectly honest, she was wrong about him three times.

Their dates, though volatile at first, with him flinching away from her hand when she went to take his, were quite very nice and she enjoyed them immensely. They went to museums, they strolled along the streets in Muggle London—well away from the Ministry, mind—they browsed bookshops and went to awful little dives for barely edible meals and considered it all a success.

Hermione had also been wrong in her thoughts that Severus would be timid in bed. After all, the man wouldn't hold her hands or even link her arm with his - he even went so far on dates to clasp his hands together behind his back.

Oh, no. The man was an insatiable beast and she had to admit that _she_ could barely keep up with _him_!

It seemed that for all the reticence he had for public displays it was cast aside in the privacy of her bedroom or his. He had stamina for days despite his lean, wiry frame, and there was absolutely something to be said about a lover who either told you exactly what he wanted or who could read your mind to give you what you wanted.

In short, it was exhilarating and she adored it.

The best thing was, Hermione thought, was that he was charming in how he made her breakfast for dinner that first time. It was sweet and definitely sent the message that he'd want her there in the morning. It even became tradition of a sort, and she made him breakfast when she first had him stay over as well. He was amused, giving her a long, considering look, but ate it without comment.

In fact, he ate everything she made, never a fuss or complaint. He never turned down takeaway, and argued with her about the book they were reading that week just the same over sandwiches as he did over burnt chicken. He'd give her the same heated looks over tinned spaghetti sauce as he did if it was breakfast.

She loved it. She loved him.

Though, if she'd thought about it, she would have thought he'd care more. After all, he'd taught at Hogwarts for over a decade, eating the delicious fare there, and he was a dedicated Potions Master. She would have, with any thought, have assumed that he would be an excellent cook.

But that was where she was wrong a third time, even if she didn't know it. He was an awful cook, worse than she. Oh, he could make tea sandwiches and breakfast, but beyond that he frankly couldn't be bothered. As long as it was edible and didn't make him sick, he'd eat anything. He enjoyed the practicality and convenience of takeaway when he couldn't be bothered to make something, which was often, and his offer of breakfast that first night had merely, to his mind, been yet another practical step.

Still, breakfast became something special for them, especially when it was for dinner.

* * *

 _Fin_


End file.
